“When we’re doing twenty miles per hour?”
She lets out a cry of frustration, flustered and angry. A red tinge sweeps over her pale face, and I fall in love all over again, painfully and violently. “Why is this thing so hard to move?”
“Because my foot isn’t on the clutch.”
“Put your foot on the clutch, then.”
“I’m all right, thanks.”
She tries the passenger door—locked,obviously, that’s rule number one of kidnapping—and presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Alex!”
My tone is butter soft. “Ophelia, my darling.”
She goes quiet as I drive out of the university gates and onto the bumpy country lanes beyond. The roads are icy, but the car has four-wheel drive. I revel in the feel of her, the heat of her body, the cinnamon smell of her hair, the sound of her breathing. “I’msoangry with you,” she says, eventually.
“Yeah, well I’m not delighted with that article you put together and failed to tell me about,” I say, now that I have her trapped. “But I thought we could discuss this like adults.”
She laughs bitterly. “Where was this logic when the article went live? Tell me about Mack.”
I rub my palm over my jaw, the stress I’d momentarily forgotten coming back tenfold. “Brendan traced the texts you’re getting back to Sorrowsong.”
“I know. The pictures of me are taken here.”
“They’re sent from here, too.”
If I thought she couldn’t get any paler, I was wrong. “But … that would mean … your father is here? In Sorrowsong?”
God, I hope not. The thought has kept me up at night, but it feels so remote, so unlikely. “What makes you so sure it’s my father sending these?”
“I’ve barely spoken to another human for four years. Surely, I can’t have many more enemies. Ithasto be him. I mean there are other options but … he’s the only person who’d want me ruined.”
My expression must betray the fact that I disagree, because a long, tired sigh mists the window on her side, her solemn gaze fixed on the naked branches outside. “You don’t think it is.”
“I think it’s beneath him, tormenting you like this.”
A small smile cracks her frosty expression, andthere’sthat little glimmer in her eye. “Wow. Thanks. Gonna addnot hot enough to be cyberstalkedto my list of attributes.”
“You’re definitely hot enough to be cyberstalked.Toohot, even.”
“Aww,” she says, swishing her hair. “Maybe if you got a haircut, you could be cyberstalked, too.”
My laugh bubbles out of me, surprising us both. I don’t need to look in the rearview mirror to know I look a mess. I run both hands through my hair, trying to rescue it. “Better?”
Her smile is soft when she reaches out to pull a lock of hair out of place, letting it hang over my eye just how she likes. When her finger grazes my skin as she withdraws her hand, I swear I feel a crackle of electricity. My heart stumbles around a heavy, thick beat. I hear her breath catch in her throat. Somehow, we’re close. So close I can see each and every one of the freckles that are scattered across her nose, cheeks, forehead, chin.
So close, I can hear how her breathing has changed, dragging air into her lungs through the hot, heavy tension in the car.
Her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip, and maybe the world isn’t such a terrible place, after all. Maybe everything will work out.
She catches herself, shaking her head as if trying to dispel this intoxicating atmosphere. “There,” she rasps, her throat hoarse when her eyes flick back up to my hair. “You’ll get a threatening text in no time.”
And just like that, the bubble bursts. The love and the lust and the desperate hope, they all seep out of the car and into the crisp air beyond when she turns away from me.
I swear I almost see the world outside turn grayer, more muted in color.
I’m not naive enough to think that being with Ophelia will simply cure me, but she’s a million and one little reasons to keep going, neatly wrapped up in a holey jacket and moth-eaten scarf.
“Colette says you’ve shut Vincenzo out.”
